Finding The Fiddle Family's Feline--or--The Case of Forgotten Freddy

  “Well kid, thanks for all your help,” said Big Belly. He tugged my baseball cap so it side-to-side on my head, and reached to pick up his fishing rod case on the dock.

  Our seaplane had just landed on the water beside Elfin Cove and then motored up to the dock. All six passengers were helped off by a waiting dock hand.

  I mumbled, “Sure.” I put my backpack on and started to walk away from them.

  “Hey, kid, look us up tomorrow, we'll buy you a pop,” yelled Eyebrows.

  “Thanks.” I gave a sigh of relief. Finally, I was finished with telling fibs.

  There were a lot of grownups helping with everyone's luggage and giving directions. It was like a festival that was trying to start, but didn't have the funnel cakes, or firecrackers, yet.

  Because it was Alaska, it stayed daylight for a lot longer than in the Lower Forty-eight States. I quickly found the lodge that had windows on the bottom level. Even though there were lots of trees and flowers, everything had a fishy smell to it. Forgotten Freddy would love this place. I looked everywhere I could think of, but I didn't see any white freckled faces or grey ringed tails. It was time to start asking questions.

  . . . . .

  I saw an old guy sitting on a rickety wooden chair at the bottom of the lodge steps. He had a long filleting knife and was slicing an apple, eating one slice at a time. He looked like he would know all the fishy places in Elfin Cove.

  “Excuse me. I'm looking for my friend's lost cat. He's white and grey and has a ringed tail. Have you seen him?”

  He stared right passed me. It was so quiet I could hear the bees buzzing in the bushes right next to the path.

  Just before I decided that this old man was not quite right in his head, he nodded. He pointed the long, narrow knife in the direction away from the lodge.

  “Aye. Saw one of those white furry feline thieves come off a float plane yesterday.” He sounded funny, but then anyone missing their two front teeth would sound funny. His long stringy, grey hair fell across his jaw. He swiped at it with the flat back of his hand, holding the knife's sharp blade away from him.

  “And he went in that direction?” I pointed away from the Lodge, towards the long dock area.

  “Don't know,” he said.

  “Then why did you point in that direction?” I asked, which was probably not the thing to do with this freaky old guy.

  “Figured it would give you something to do.” He carefully cut another slice of apple and slid it into his mouth.

  “Huh?”

  “Well, that path goes for a long way. Give a youngster like you some exercise. Kids are getting too fat these days,” he said.

  “Ah, okay.” I started to turn away. Some old folks are really hard to deal with.

  Then his eyes kind of twinkled when he said, “Besides, there are a lot of docks on that path with a lot of old, dead, smelly fish.. If I was a fur ball, that's the direction my nose would take me in.”

  He shifted his seat, looked square at me and then nodded.

  “Thanks, mister.”

  “May fair fortune find you little girl,” he said. “Hope you find your cat before somebody shoots it. We don't cotton to stray cats making a mess in the fish.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  I turned to go back down the path to the docks, when I heard him say, “I could use a gold tooth like yourn.”

  It seemed foolish to wait around to see if he had any intentions of helping himself to my gold tooth, so I ran back down the trail towards the docks.

  There sure was a lot of talk about shooting cats in Alaska. Maybe felines with fetishes for fish weren't exactly welcome in first rate fish-fetching places.

  . . . . . .

  I found the old docks. “Smelly” was a kind word for the stinking-hold-your-nose stench that greeted me.

  It was worse than old man Federman's farts. I mean it was bad with all capital letters.

  B-A-D.

  Then I saw why the dock was locked in dock fart. A huge mound of fish fins, skins, head and guts were in a wire container at the far end of the docks. I knew it would make great dining food for cats.

  Holding my nose, I yelled, “Freddy! Freddy! Come here boy.”

  It's hard running, bent over with a back pack with one hand pinching your nose and the other holding onto the bouncing pack. But that's what I did. I ran and yelled and pinched my nose until I couldn't breathe. I had to stop. Hopefully up wind from the dead fish bin.

  I gulped air, trying not to use my nose.

  No Freddy. No sign of any felines.

  Well if I was a cat, I wouldn't stay long after getting a meal. Even cats have noses that must object to this kind of constant foul smell.

  The path continued around the bend and out of sight of the dock. I made the instant expert, professional, detective decision to leave the dock and follow the path. My red, pinched nose was glad for that decision.

  The path climbed up a steep little hill with lots of trees and away from the water. When I got to the top I saw a little cluster of homes at the bottom of the other side of hill.

  Maybe Freddy the Forgotten Feline had found a way to fend for himself in the fresh air somewhere near a friendly home.

  I knocked at the door of the first house.

  A old lady with her white hair in a bun answered. She had dimples in her reddened cheeks and a blue apron with floured hand prints on it.

  “What can I do for you, honey?” she asked in a jolly fat lady's voice.

  “Have you seen a stray white and grey cat with a white freckled face and a ringed tail?”

  “Well, yes. I fed him some tuna fish yesterday,” she said.

  “Great!” I was getting closer to finding Forgotten Freddy, a very frisky feline.

  Her eyes looked up and she scanned the narrow little street of houses, then she shook her head. A bobby pin fell out of her bun.

  “I thought he would be back this morning, but he didn't return. Is he your cat?”

  “Sort of. A friend's cat. His name is Freddy. He was forgotten at a road side rest stop and we think he got on a plane and got off here,” I said.

  She dried her big, soft hands on her floured blue apron.

  “Honey, you just come in here and have some cookies. Let's talk cats and maybe we can figure out where Freddy has gone to. Can't be too far.”

  I shook my head. She seemed nice and everything, but I figured she would start asking me questions about my parents and where we were staying and well, I just didn't want to tell any more fibs.

  “Thanks, but I have to find Freddy so we can go home,” I said.

  “Oh, I understand,” she said. “Your parents must be really nice to spend extra money on staying around here until you find your friend's cat.”

  I nodded.

  She smiled and nodded, too.

  “Do you have any idea where Freddy may have gone after eating here?” I asked.

  She chewed on her lip for a moment. “With a full tummy, I think your cat would head for a warm place to nap, don't you?” she asked.

  “Yes. With windows,” I said.

  “Ah. Windows.” She nodded, pulled out a bobby pin in her bun and put it back in. Then she put her hand on my shoulder, turned me to face the street. She pointed to a tall spire in the distance.

  “I think you had better try St. Francis. It has windows on the south side that go clear to the ground. Big windowsills on the outside. Perfect place for a fully fed feline to feel fat and fine.”

  “Thanks. You've been a big help,” I said.

  As I trotted down the street, I heard her yell, “When you find Freddy, come on back and have one of my favorite homemade fortune cookies.”

  Chapter FOUR

  Fools and Fiends

  St. Francis' long wall was on the water side. Southern exposure. Windows clear to the ground. With extended boards to place plants on. Twelve windows. No Forgotten Freddy. But I did find a
few white hairs on one of the windowsills. And cat footprints in the sandy soil. I was getting close to finding Forgotten Freddy. I couldn't risk failing to find Freddy. Too many firearms just waiting to bid farewell to a fish mongering feline.

  The blue aproned woman had fed fish to Freddy yesterday. He would be trying to find another friendly feline lover to feed him today. And, it seemed that Freddy never went backwards on his trail. So that meant I had to keep following Forgotten Freddy further away from the float plane and the fisherman's lodge.

  Thank goodness that it was Alaska where the sun filters its last rays for a long time in the late summer evening. As long as I didn't need to sleep, I could keep following Forgotten Freddy's feline, fickle route.

  . . . . .

  “Hey Kid—ya 'ant a job?” asked a huge guy who was wrapping big ropes around a post at the dock. He had on bright yellow rain pants held up with wide red suspenders.

  “Ah, no thanks. I have to get back to my folks,” I said.

  “Ya 'ont live here,” he said. His two front teeth were missing. He sounded a lot like the old guy. Suddenly I was afraid to drink the water in Alaska. How come so many folks have lost their two front teeth?

  “I was just exploring,” I said as I started to walk away from him, following the little pier to the far end.

  “Hey, ya's going the thong way,” he said.

  “Well, actually, I'm looking for my friend's cat. He's white and grey with a ringed tail,” I said. I wasn't too sure this guy was going to be very helpful. He just had a look about him. Or maybe it was just his fishy smell.

  “Nah. Haven't theen him,” he said.

  “Okay, guess I'll keep looking for awhile,” I said.

  “Ya cat like 'ish?” He stopped winding the rope and stooped over to pick up a big box filled with silvery fish. Must have been dead, they weren't even flopping.

  “Sure. He likes fish and sleeping on warm windowsills,” I said.

  “Well, why yont ya help me with these 'ish. I'll bet ya he'll thow up by the time we're done. You'll have ya cat and make thome money. How does that thound?” he asked.

  I looked at the fish. I was thinking fish guts have to come from somewhere. Inside fish would be my best detective guess.

  “What do I have to do?” I asked.

  “Just help me process thome of these 'ish,” he said.

  I though, Oh, processing certainly sounds better than 'pulling out fish guts.

  “Here's ah 'ubber apron ust your thize.”

  He handed me a black rubber apron that went to my ankles.

  “Yep. lits you ust line. Here, let's take off ya back pack.”

  He leaned my backpack up against a large plastic tub. Before I could figure out what to say, he had pulled up the top neck string of my apron, tied a knot in it and suddenly I looked like some kind of “fish girl.”

  “Ever use a 'ish knife?” he asked.

  “No, my Mom won't let me use really sharp knives,” I said.

  Maybe I could get out of this instant fish job without making a big deal out of it. I didn't want him to think I was lazy or too prissy to handle dead fish.

  “No 'roblem. Wouldn't want to have ya do 'omething your yolks don't want ya to do,” he said.

  “Ah, okay.” I started to untie my apron.

  “Ay, not so last. I can use the knife and teach ya how to run your two 'ingers up under the skin and pull out the guts. Fast. Ust like that.” He snapped his gut-encrusted fingers. “Thrust me, you'll have fun and be able to tell ya yolks that ya a eel 'isherman.'” He was grinning.

  The next thing I know he's cut open the fish and pulled my hand inside, going almost all the way to my elbow.

  YUCK! Fish Guts! First time to find fish guts all on the account of Forgotten Freddy who needs to be found and returned to his family in Friday Harbor! This is not fine! This is a Forgotten Freddy Fishing FIASCO!

  “Thee kid, nothing to it,” said my toothless fishing fairy godfather.

  “Ah, yeah. If you say so,” I said through gritted teeth.

  His big head flung back with him laughing so hard his slimy knit hat fell off.

  But nothing stopped him. As soon as he cut open the belly of a fish, he jammed my hand way up inside and with my fingers I pulled out guts. FISH GUTS!

  Twenty-two fish.

  Fish guts all over the dock.

  Fish guts all over ME!

  “Vell kid. Ya did an okay job for your first thime,” he said.

  “Thanks. I guess.” All I wanted to do was to get out of there. Away from friendly fishermen who have a fondness for FISH GUTS.

  He picked up a hose that was stiff with a heavy stream of water and pointed in my direction. I quickly washed off my hands and arms. And even more quickly took off the apron and pulled on my backpack before he could think of any more fish that needed processing.

  He looked around.

  “Thorry kid, I don't see your cat.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and as causally as I could, I said, “Guess I'll go back to the lodge.”

  “Don't 'orget to get your vages,” he said as he reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a black, well worn wallet. Thumbed through the paper bills.

  “He pulled out two one dollar bills. “Here.”

  He held out the the two bills to me.

  I looked at the bills and then at him. All that work for two measly dollars?

  “I 'igure that since it's your 'irst time to process ish that I'll have to cut your vages in half,” he said.

  I looked up at him. Who was he kidding? This was Alaska. Home to making big money in the fish industry. TWO DOLLARS for all those fish guts. I shook my head.

  He reached out and stuffed the money in my backpack. Stood back and grinned his toothless smile. “Hey Kid, if I see ya thcat, I'll think twice before I get my gun.” He smiled. A big, nasty smile.

  I fled from the dock, forging through unknown territory. I could hear his deep throaty laughter until I turned a corner and ducked behind some trees. It's not nice to take advantage of a visitor, especially a kid visitor. I fumed for the first few minutes, but then I found a footpath that would hopefully lead me far, far away from fiendish fishermen and FISH GUTS.

  Chapter FIVE

  A Full Fledged Fan For Freddy

  But wait, what about Freddy? The Forgotten Feline? The feisty fish eater who flakes out on fuzzy warm windowsills? With the way these fishermen feel about smuggled in felines, I was beginning to get this five alarm need to find Forgotten Freddy really fast.

  I jogged all the way back to the lodge. I would have run, but I was saving my last bit of energy. A good detective always holds something back. In my case, it was the individually wrapped fudge pieces in the bottom of my back pack. Oh, yeah, I also had one of those little pop open kitty cans of “Fancy Feast” stowed away for Fickle, Fish-eating Forgotten Freddy.

  . . . . . .

  “Ma'am, excuse me, but could you please tell me if you've seen a white and grey cat with white freckled face and a ringed tail?” The old lady was sitting in the rocking chair on the lodge's big front deck.

  “Well, isn't that nice,” she said. “A youngster with such nice manners.”

  I smiled and took off my black and orange Giants baseball cap. It didn't seem polite to keep it on.

  “I saw your cat come through here yesterday,” she said, as she took the pipe out of her mouth. “He seemed to be looking for a place to curl up in.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. (I ignored the pipe. People in this part of the world seemed a little different to me, but they didn't seem different to them.)

  “Well, he was moving real slow, like he'd just had dinner. His tail wasn't twitching. He just kept slinking down, looking from one side to other. Then he'd stop and crane his neck and look up. I supposed he was looking for a nice spot to take a nap.” She took the pipe out of her mouth again, tapped it on the arm of her cha
ir and put it back in her mouth.

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “Well, he went around to the side of the lodge.” She took a puff on her pipe, slowly took it out of her mouth and pointed it at the west side of the lodge.

  “And you haven't seen him since?” I asked. Sometimes people leave out the most important details of their story.

  “No. Haven't seen him.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  She nodded, her lips pursed tight around the pipe stem.

  I turned and started to walk around the side of the lodge. Just as I reached the corner, the old lady called out.

  “Young lady. You might not want to know this.” She stopped rocking.

  I turned and asked, “Is it something bad?”

  “'Fraid so.”

  I waited, holding my breath.

  “Last night I heard some rifle shots just up that'a way,” she swung her arm towards a hill behind the Lodge.

  “That could have meant just about anything,” I said, but my heart was pounding.

  “Well, could be,” she nodded. She took another puff, held the pipe out from her mouth, looked at it and then put it back between her lips.

  I stayed still, not moving. I figured she had more to tell me.

  “But this morning at breakfast, a man said that he was sure he had shot an all white minx last night.”

  “There's no such thing as a white minx.” At least I was pretty sure that minx' were brown.

  It was her turn to nod. She didn't take her eyes off of me.

  I took a couple of steps back towards her chair and softly asked, “Did the man say anything else?”

  She thought for a moment. Shook her head a couple of times. A few seconds of silence past before she said, “Between you and me sister, that man has a pea for a brain and never wears his glasses.”

  “Do you really think he shot my cat?”

  She rocked back and forth, looking out over the water that softy washed up and back on the shore. “Not much of a chance. Not only can't he see much, but usually he nails somebody's car or house. Can't shoot worth a darn.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Raised him. He's just like his Daddy. And Lord knows, his Daddy had to take up fishing after he shot his toe off while cleaning his gun.”